Of Cold Steel and Burning Sunshine
by Fiera Evenstar
Summary: There were two, one of Light, born beneath the Sun, and the other of Darkness, formed from Shadow. They both passed into the void and returned, strangers in their own world, which had changed by time in their absence. The one of Light was brought back when he was needed. The Darkness, however, was brought back for a different purpose: to be given a second chance at life.
1. Prologue: Life in Death

When the Witch King of Angmar died, it was probably the smartest thing that he ever did. Which was saying quite a bit, given that he was immortal and all of that, how no man could kill him. It was a woman that had slain him, with a sword of blued steel, common among men. It was not anything special, no Excalibur or fabled blade. She, guised in the garb of a man at war, slew him over the fallen body of her uncle, the King Théoden of Rohan, realm of horses and men just as wild and free as the majestic beasts they rode.

As he burned from the inside out, the black magic that allowed him existence tearing him apart into nothingness, the darkness that the Witch King was smiled a small sort of smile, the kind that one gives when they know a secret. He had been so clever in creating his identity. He had made himself appear invincible, undefeatable, indestructible, everlasting demise and darkness. No man could kill him. Oh, how sly and cunning he had been when he formed a slight loophole in the deal he had forged with Death, so sly that it made him grin.

He had known for a long time that Sauron of the One Ring would come to the gateway of Hel to ask of his services. Of course the Witch King accepted the mighty lord's offer with open arms. He had it all planned out from the beginning of time. He would be the villain of the stories forevermore unless there was some chance for him to change, to become different, to grow and become better than he had been. So he died. After many ages into the past of plotting and killing and scheming, he was finally able to carry out his ultimate plan.

The Witch King was the offspring of dark tales told by flickering candlelight on stormy nights and the hot ashes and flaming coals of cities burning beneath blood moons, of moonlight on dark water, and the screams of children. Of these things he was composed, and they were him, and thus he was formed from the fear of mankind. He was purely black and of the void, a creature of impenetrable darkness, and his mere presence instilled terror in all that gazed upon his shaded form. None had ever looked upon him without fear, and when Eowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden, gazed hard into the emptiness behind his iron mask, he knew that she was the one. She was the maiden that would kill him. He could see no fear of Death in her eyes, none whatsoever. In his final moments, he felt a peace fall over him, even as her sword pierced through the cursed iron of his helm and the dark spirits holding his form together screamed at their release.

He buckled down to his knees, falling into the grasses of the Fields of Pelennor stained with the blood of armies, watching as Eowyn was thrown back from him by the Black Touch of his spirits, seeing the body of his winged serpent steed, the carcass of Théoden barely breathing, the sky a burning grey color. He looked up at the heavily clouded sky, the air dusty brown from the dirt sent up by the horses' hooves, outlining the gore of the battlefield. Thusly he cast his past the clouds to the Dark Tower that resided in Mordor, the land of darkness, past the barren wasteland, and to the flaming Eye of Sauron. His fading spirit managed one last grin and two last words.

"I…win."


	2. Chapter One: The Flight of the Fallen

There was darkness. So much darkness. And then there was nothing, nothing as far as the eye could see, a consuming emptiness that ate away at the soul, cold and heartless. He couldn't feel anything but the emptiness, until he hit the ground. He had been falling for what had felt like an eternity, spiraling through the abyss. Now all he could feel was the pain, as onyx night blossomed in his vision, drowning out all that he knew. Then the darkness consumed him, and he knew no more.

"Where do you think that he came from?"

"I know not, my son. You know that whatever falls from the skies in these forests is of ill-omen. It is best that we return home and forget we ever saw him."

"But Father, he could be hurt! What would Mother say if she found out?"

A brief silence ensued.

A sigh.

"All right, son, all right. We'll take him back with us and see what your mother says."

"Thank you, Father."

"Don't thank me, boy. Thank your mother if she lets him stay the night."

"I will, Father, I promise."

"Come now son, I'll need your help to carry him back to the horse. I still don't think this a wise decision. Where _do_ you think that he could have come from? The nearest town is Bree—still over a fortnight's journey from this place. And here we find him, in the middle of a forest clearing. It nearly sounds like something out of the old stories."

"But that's the thing, Father, the old stories were true."

"Bah, no one could have slain a dragon."

"Not without a Black Arrow, or Dragon's Bane, Father, but they had what we do not."

"This man here did not come from Gondor or Rohan, although he bears the semblance of a noble lad. Perhaps he is Elven?"

"All of the Elves have left, all but a very select few. He can't be. See, he doesn't have the pointy ears."

"Then we shall question him when he wakes. I would bet that he is some sort of traveler on his way from Bree, however unlikely."

"He carries no provisions, Father, and he looks like no man I have ever seen."

"You have yet to see many men, my son."

"Still, Father…"

"Come. Let us carry him back to the horses. It will be a week's journey back to your mother, so let us make haste."

And so they did.

The Witch King landed in the middle of a cold winter frosted field in the middle of nowhere under a sky filled with clouds that boded of the first coming snow. How long he had fallen was yet to be known. He lay spread eagled in the brown crunching grass as if he had fallen from the heavens. He could see nothing hear nothing. All that he knew was that he was alive. And that was enough for him.

The father and his son arrived back to their small humble home on one horse together, their unexpected guest draped over the back of a dappled mare along with a small satchel filled with dried meat from hares and two wineskins of water. It was a simple structure of brick and wood with a red stone chimney, old oak for its door, a little gem nestled into the wilderness. A post for the horses was set up out front, along with a fence to keep them from roaming out too far into the woods. A small path worn by horses' hooves and booted feet led up to the entrance of the house, on which the boy and his father travelled, a rope connecting one horse to the other. The grass was cropped by the horses, tended and picked free of insects by the chickens. Around the house were shrubs bare of their leaves, all except for the two tall and glistening green and scarlet holly bushes next to the door, berries shining like the jewels of kings.

"Mirilana!" called the father, his son Feldspar holding the reins of their horse, a trusty and kind beast by the name of Alderward, chestnut brown in colour with deep and dark eyes that spoke of warmth. Mirilana, the loving wife and mother, was out feeding the gossiping hens dried corn, dressed warmly in a woolen shift, apron tied snugly about her waist. She had greying hair tucked up into a kerchief that was flying askew as she ordered the disobedient chickens about. Her eyes twinkled as she looked up from yelling at the petulant birds, her gaze settling on her husband and son.

"Ah, Feldspar and Harrion, at last you return," she called as she made her way over to them, a large smile on her soft round face. "It was beginning to get lonely around here without the ruckus that the two of you make each morn. Did you manage to gather enough herbs from the highlands that I can dry them for the winter and sell as medicines in the spring?"

"Aye Mirilana, my love, that we did," Harrion the father affirmed as he swung his son from his lap so that he could dismount. Feldspar, not one to be far behind, leapt down swiftly to be embraced by his mother.

"And you'll never guess what else we found, Mother!"

The middle-aged woman laughed quietly in her throat at the eagerness of her son. "What did you find on your little quest, Feldspar?"

"We found a man, Mother, a real man. He was lying on his back in the middle of a clearing full of winter herbs, and we were harvesting, and we just happened upon him. He was a tall man, but completely covered in dirt, so I thought that he was dead. But Father said that he wasn't."

"And where is this strange mysterious man now?" asked Mirilana, still under the impression that her boy was spinning tales.

"Oh, he's right over there," Feldspar exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the second horse. "It took both Father and I to lift him up onto Brazen here." Brazen's name had been given well. A fiery colt, Brazen was a shining white with back liquid pools for eyes that lit up when agitated in the way that dark and dead coals leap to life when touched by flame. Mirilana cast her gaze over to Brazen and gasped. Hiking up her dress by the hem in an unladylike fashion, she tottered as fast as her weighted skirts would permit next to the flank of her bold horse.

She beheld a rather impressively tall man who seemed quite lean and strong, even underneath the mud that colored everything from his skin to his hair a dirty and dingy brown. She thought the same thing that her husband had, immediately presuming the stranger to be some sort of deranged Elf, but his lack of pointed ears disproved her theory. _Who are you?_ she wondered silently, but aloud she proclaimed,

"Let us take him into our home and let him recover himself there upon a bed of straw rather than on the backside of a horse."

Harrion agreed reluctantly, still wary about such a strange creature being inside the walls of his home, but if his wife had enough trust in this complete stranger, then he decided that he ought to go along with her. With Feldspar's help, he carried the stranger up the last length of the path and through the front door. The stranger was no lightweight, although Harrion was thankful that he was no titan, either. Then it would have been impossible to carry his mass.

Harrion and Mirilana had a small but quaint home with wood board floors and interior, a lovely hearth and fireplace with a good stock of oak to burn next to it, a kitchen with a carved table, and a large mattress of straw-stuffed sackcloth for all of them to share at night whilst huddled up with a large collection of blankets. Despite the fireplace and each other's warmth, the family still got cold during the long winter nights.

"You said you found him in the middle of a meadow?" Mirilana asked as she lay out a few old blankets on the wood floor in front of the fireplace. Harrion and Feldspar set the man on top, their own hands now covered and their clothes soiled with the mud on the man.

"Aye, my love. As mud covered as he is now and laying out, limbs all askew like some bird fallen in flight."

"Well, I sure hope he wakes up soon," she said. "Then he can at least wash up. Honestly, he looks like the very pits of Mordor."

"For once my dear, I wish not to argue with you on that one." Harrion distastefully tried brushing some of the mud on his hands off on the sides of his worn brown trousers, but only succeeded in making them dirtier. He groaned and grumbled through his teeth as he stalked off to the water supply in hopes of cleaning up. His clothes had to be washed, and he knew that his other pair of pants weren't nearly as comfortable as the filthy ones he wore now.

Mirilana rolled her eyes at her husband's behavior and beckoned Feldspar.

"I want you to stay right here, so just in case he wakes up while I'm making us a small luncheon with some of that bread and stew, so that he doesn't panic about being in some strange place. I honestly wonder what his story is."

"I could ask him for you, Mother," the boy offered as he sat down on his heels next to the strange man lying prone on the floor of the house. From a simple glance, one could tell that he did not belong in such a domestic setting. It contrasted in some foreign way with his figure and bearing that were already so obvious, even in his slumber.

"That would be quite nice of you Feldspar, but don't push him. The poor dear is going to be confused, so you need to explain to him what has happened to him while he slept." With that, Mirilana left her son's side with a soft smile, leaving him alone with the stranger as the fireplace roared behind them.


	3. Chapter Two: The Strangeness of Rebirth

The Witch King's breathing was slow and steady as his limbs were thawed before the fire, warmth finally returning to the far reaches of his muddied fingertips and the ends of his long legs. It was a pleasant sensation, he had noticed out of the corner of his mind as it faded in and out of the edges of consciousness, one that he had not had the liberty of knowing in his dark spirit form. In such as state as pure darkness, this warmth that he knew as a family room fire would have been a tool with which to burn and destroy. It was a strange thing that he made note on, that his perspective had changed so drastically. What once was only for war and carnage was for peace and fellowship.

The darkness was losing its hold upon his mind, and he could slowly feel himself returning to reality. He could feel the dirt in every crevice of his skin, in some places he didn't even know he had until then. There was the snapping and crackling of the wood in the fireplace, and there was this other sort of sound, soft and periodical like small puffs of a warm summer wind. A child's breath. The Witch King groaned through his teeth, physical teeth that he had not had before, small white stubs of bone embedded in pink fleshy gums.

"Mother!" called out a light voice. The child. "Mother, I think that he awakes!"

The Witch King groaned again, this time stretching out his legs. The feeling made him sigh in pleasure. What a thing, to have limbs to stretch. The patter of feet on the wood floor could be heard, heavier than the child's, obviously his mother.

"So he does, Feldspar! Quickly, go fetch your father. Quickly now!"

Only a few moments later, another set of footsteps joined the duet of voices.

"I have heard that the stranger that sleeps in our home awakens," Harrion announced as he came up beside the Witch King. Said stranger groaned once more, lips parting, breathing in like fish out of water.

"Hail there, my good man," he heard. Good man? Him? How long had he been gone from this world? "What is your name?"

The Witch King didn't answer, as he was deep in thought, barely awake on the blanket, sleep still keeping his eyelids shut.

"What is your name? Do you not know?"

Another soft groan, followed by a few words.

"I...know," he managed, his voice rasped with disuse, deeper and fairer than he had expected. As a spirit of the void, he had sounded like the whisper of death itself. He was that demonic spirit no more. "I have a name, which I would be more inclined to share if I knew yours."

He stretched out again, a colt learning its first steps. This whole world was foreign to him. There were children. There were no such blessings where he had come from.

"I am Harrion," said the man's voice. The husband and father, hunter and farmer of his land. A good man to be assured, his name meaning Earth-Smith. A rasped chuckle escaped the Witch King's throat. So long ago he would have killed this man where he stood. Why not now? What stopped him? It was then that he discovered something that hadn't been in his physical composition before. Mercy. Compassion. A conscious. And, maybe, just perhaps, love. He was not just a stranger to these people, but a stranger to himself.

It struck him like a bolt of sky-fire. His name. His real name.

His eyes snapped open.

Two orbs of ocean and celestial blue shot through with what appeared to be a dark silver gazed into the unknown. He saw the three humans leaning above him, one female in traditional garb, one a man with brown and grey hair and beard, and a child with a look of pure wonder and curiosity in his bright green eyes.

"Firwyn," he gasped aloud. "My name is Firwyn."

The woman looked at her husband, her expression one of undecipherable concern. She knew what his name meant. It was in the old Elven tongue, one that had not been spoken in centuries by man. The few Elves that remained kept their knowledge to themselves. Firwyn meant Dark-Song. This man at her feet, covered in mud yet with some of the deepest most secret-laden eyes she had ever seen had knowledge that the average worker of the land did not possess.

"From where do you hail, Firwyn?"

The Witch King Firwyn propped himself up slightly on the blanket with his forearm, strong but coated like rocks with old moss in mud, and thought. Nothing came. "I know not."

Harrion raised an eyebrow. "Very well then, Firwyn, come with me. I shall have Mirilana heat some water so that you may bathe. Feldspar here may need to help you, as I must attend to helping my wife with the meal."

"Thank you," Firwyn replied uncertainly, attempting to push himself up from the wood floor. Finding rising into a standing position harder than he had expected, Feldspar bent down to act as a small human crutch.

"You have a strange name," Feldspar remarked as he led Firwyn to bathe. They hobbled through the halls and up a narrow flight of stairs with no railing, which proved difficult for the Witch King in his new form. He was completely unused to a body of flesh and bone. Flesh could tear, and bone could shatter. It was a dangerous existence in his eyes, although there was nothing that he could do about his current state other than adapt to it.

Feldspar puzzled endlessly over the man he was leading through his home. He was quite tall, in an almost iconic fashion. A few times he had to duck his head beneath door frames. He wore his hair long like the elves, but unbraided and unattended, covered with enough mud, weeds, and dirt to mask its true color. His skin was encased in the same filth. Despite the cold oncoming winter weather, he wore a deeply soiled tunic belted around the waist with a strip of frayed cloth, a pair of lightweight breeches that hugged his long legs, ending in a large pair of extraordinarily dirty feet. His eyes were piercing, nearly unsettling in their brilliance and age, with the rest of his body appearing to be a young man in his prime. Feldspar wondered if he had many stories to tell. He hoped so. In his small home, there were no new stories from other distant lands, no foreigners in strange garment and speaking strange tongues. And then this man had come, almost like an answered prayer.

"Yes, it is, but your names are those that I have never heard before. I am not the only stranger in this house. Even I wonder what color I am beneath this grime, young one."

A small laugh came from Feldspar's lips.

"I have never met a man like you," he said in curiosity. He bit his thin bottom lip in, causing Firwyn to smile slightly. He felt something warm within. Was this how people felt when they smiled? Warm, at peace, bonded in happiness? It was something that the Witch King had never felt. So much was new for Firwyn. Scratch that, he thought. _Everything_ was new. "Well, I haven't met many men, though. And by the way that you're looking at me now, neither have you."

"Not as of recent times," Firwyn began, "but I have met quite a few in my day."

"You speak as though you are older than my father."

"If it concerns you, let it be known that I have the slight feeling that I may be. Swear though not to tell your mother, though please. Some things are better left secret to some ears, young one."

"If you allow me to clean you up so that you don't destroy the bathing supplies that we have, then I will not have to tell her anything."

"Good lad," Firwyn wheezed out. Having the voice of a human would take some time getting used to. "I think that I can manage succumbing to your little hands for a while." He took some of the cloth draping over his forearm and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. A stream of grime brushed off. His nose wrinkled, an odd sight to Feldspar, who was not used to seeing grown men wrinkle their noses or grown men so filthy, and filthy grown men that wrinkled their noses. He was simply an inexperienced child, at least in areas such as nose-wrinkling.

The bath was a simple large wooden tub with a narrow wraparound wall for privacy of the bather from prying eyes. It was quickly filled up with hot water, and Feldspar ordered Firwyn to being soaking to "get rid of all that awful dirt" while he ventured off briefly to find him an extra set of clothes. The old set looked close to falling apart as they hung limply from his tall frame.

The water was so warm. It felt like the way that sweet cream and honey tasted, although the Witch King had never had that. The analogy had popped into his head. He needed to remind himself that he was the Witch King no longer. He was Firwyn, the Dark Song. Although he was now of man's flesh, he felt free, not tied down to anyone or anything. At the same time that such freedom was exhilarating, it was also…lonely.

The water was already tinged brown from him just sitting in the tub, and running a hand over his shin, he removed yet another layer of dirt, finally revealing pale smooth skin, surprisingly dashed with small constellations of freckles. The ones on his leg that he had uncovered were shaped just like those of the great Sky Dragon. His skin represented the void that he had come from, the empty stardust-filled space that he had dwelt within for so many years. It was about the time of his discovery that Feldspar returned with more hot water, lye soap scented with the lavender and herbs that Mirilana worked so proficiently in, and an armful of rags along with a pair of trousers that would be slightly small, but would serve their purpose.

"You have freckles!" Feldspar exclaimed in delight as he set down the rags and water. "In these parts, they are rare. Mother always told me that they were a symbol of the years one had lived under the stars, although the sun gives them. She says that they always mean something important, but their meaning is only uncovered when it needs to be." He sucked in his bottom lip, once again a simple child. Children, Firwyn discover then, have their own particular wisdom. He stopped thinking when Feldspar dumped the jar of water over his head causing a stream of filth to block his vision. He spat out some dirt in distaste.

"So this is how your family usually bathes?" Firwyn queried as Feldspar dumped another bit of water on his head.

"Not usually, no," he admitted. "We would normally bathe in the stream, but it's the winter season, so—"

"Please, could you take me to this stream?"

"Do you have a death wish?"

"Possibly."

"You could die. The water's so cold that when you do the washing in it, the second you pull the fabrics out, they freeze solid. My mother found that out the hard way. Now we have learned not to tread icy waters."

"I appreciate your concern, young one, but I must get clean, and this is nearly making matters worse. I shall go on my own. If your mother or father ask where I am, tell them that I went to the stream to clean myself up. I will be back soon for the wonderful meal that they are providing. Thank you, Feldspar."

Feldspar handed him a large rag with which he wrapped himself against the cold. With a nod, he clambered out of the bathing tub, shaking water from his legs. He didn't feel anything. The cold had little effect, as did the heat. Nothing registered in his mind. Besides, something was calling him, beckoning. And being the curious fellow he was, he needed to find out. Discover.

Grabbing a small wrapped bar of lavender herb soap, Firwyn made his way to the door.

"Just take the small path out back," Feldspar directed. "It is nearly impossible to miss."

Firwyn looked over his shoulder and smiled softly through the mud drying unpleasantly to his skin once more.

"I'll try not to get lost," he said. "I seem to be rather good at that."


	4. Chapter Three: The Voice of the Creator

His feet made no noise as they skimmed the frosted leaves of the short and narrow forest path leading to the stream, a ghost gliding through crystalline air and diamond-glazed greenery. The cold muffled any sound, the woodland area almost ethereal in its perpetual silence. Not a single living thing moved other than Firwyn. The coldness refused to bite at his bare skin, the mud layer perhaps protecting him from winter's sting.

The woodland path was lined with thick-trunked trees with heavy weighted and scarred bark, grey and brown riveted with wear from the ages past. It was an unearthly feeling, knowing that you were older than the forests of the world, seeing the trees as ancient beings and wondering yourself just how old exactly those trees might be. The sky was clouded over in a sort of soft misted colour forecasting perhaps the first snow. The frost twinkled in the veiled light, small diamonds scattered haphazardly like one of the dwarves of olden times had dropped a handful of the perfect precious stones.

A few more minutes after trekking the woodland path, the soft almost indiscernible music of the stream reached his ears. The sound of slowly flowing water brushed against him, as if it whispered his name against his soul. _Firwyn,_ it seemed to say. _Dark Song, Dark Song, sing for us…_ Firwyn blinked a few times rapidly, clearing his mind. The water's trickling sound was muffled a bit by the ice struggling to form over the currents, and the former Witch King compared the waters to himself, and the ice to Death. Death had no control over him, just as the ice had no hold over the waters swirling waters.

Sound finally returned to the world as Firwyn emerged from the winter kissed forest, the wind whisking through brittle reeds and tangles blankets of leaves. It tore through his hair, the scent of pine filling his senses, sending thrills down his spine. He clutched the rag covering his body a bit tighter, not out of the cold, but out of apprehension. Something about this stream was alive. It spoke. It spoke to him. It sang, it cried, it roared, refusing him to ignore its presence. The crystal waters of the stream danced slowly before his eyes, a ballet of liquid pirouetting around smooth grey stones breaking the water's flow. Coming up to the edge of the stream, Firwyn carefully, gracefully with a tact that he did not know he possessed, edged himself onto the slim outcropping over the largest stretch of stream and with an intake of breath, slipped gently from the ledge and into the waters below.

As soon as the icy water broke against his skin, he gasped. Colours burst behind his vision, small nebulas and sporadic clusters of stardust. Everything rushed back, all of his memories at once, every year of his pathetic existence of servitude to the darker and more malevolent lord. Behind his helm of impenetrable steel forged in the fires of Mount Doom was actually a surprisingly comely Valar. His cold metal hid his features, for the ugly was more openly accepted as evil than beauty. He hid, becoming a festering lily concealed by the appearance of a weed. Still evil, though. Completely. Fully. To the core.

*(0)*

 _It had been a dark night that Sauron, once Mairon the Admirable, finest blacksmith ever to grace the forges of the Valar, came to him in his home of darkness. He had been cloaked in a raiment of silver that matched the faraway stars, his dark iron armour and helm adorning his tall figure._

 _"_ _I have come here asking for your assistance," the Dark Lord declared, his deep silken voice echoing behind the fearsome helm._

 _"_ _You are always welcome here," the Witch King said, a smile in a voice that so resembled the other's. Sauron raised his armoured fingers to his helm and removed it from his head. At the same time, the Witch King took his hands to his hood, a great black thing fitted to his robes that shrouded his face completely in black. From both hood and helm tumbled long hair the color of flickering flames, a fierce strong red that gleamed like melted gold in lantern light. Eyes of gold fire met sapphire lightning. A small smile twisted the Witch King's lips. "Brother."_

*(0)*

The memory faded away as Firwyn spat water from his mouth. He had slipped beneath the surface, clods of dirt fanning out around him. He caught an eye at his reflection and felt a pit form in his stomach as he outlined every similarity shared between him and his darker master. Brothers not by blood, but close enough in semblance that one could still mistake their identities. The evil in both of them had been hewn from the same stone, the igneous rock of the great Mount Doom of Mordor. That was what their helms had been crafted from: rock so strong that not even Dwarven steel and metals nor Elven arrows crafted from the Deep Magic of Middle Earth could pierce them. The helms radiated this inexplicable fear that was instilled in the hearts of men, something stronger and more powerful and deadly in the hands of the two darkest otherworldly beings to dwell within the land that had been protected by the mighty hands of the Valar.

Clawing towards the light, his hands grasped at the surface like it would be able to sustain his weight. His hair was in his vision, and shoving it aside, the light of day burned his eyes, scorching them. He could see the faint outline of his features in the mirrored surface.

Hair like forge's fire framed a fair face that would have suited better an elf, although his ears were certainly not nearly as pointed as theirs. However, he noticed that they were distinctly elongated at the tips now, as beings of the netherworld often had. It marked him as an outcast, neither part of this world, this Middle Earth, or the land of nothingness from where he had come. He could faintly see his eyes, so full of age, the color of a star at birth. He would know what a newborn star looked like, being a creature from an ancient past farther back than hardly anyone or anything could remember. But _he_ remembered. And he swore to himself that he would never forget.

His skin had been washed clean now, free from dirt. On his shoulders, trailing down his arms and down his legs respectively, were those small constellation-like dots that Feldspar had called freckles. How was it that the greatest servant to the Dark Lord himself was freckled? It took only a few seconds for him to realize what was displayed so openly on his skin. The entire universe was mapped out, simplified of course, but there in nearly every detail, down to a large freckle that almost seemed silvery compared to the others: the Evenstar.

"What have I become?" he whispered, hoping that somehow the wind would spare him and answer his plea. "Who am I? And why am I here?"

There was a gentle stirring in the breeze, and chills ran down Firwyn's spine like the creeping of frost over the leaves surrounding the stream. A voice was carried on its gentle breath, a very old voice that hummed in his soul and made his inner magic quiver, trembling. It was tossed about as the voice entered his ears, speaking as though not to his ears, but straight to his mind, echoing around in his skull.

 _"_ _Dark Song,"_ the voice murmured. _"I have been waiting a while to speak with you."_

"Who are you?"

 _"_ _I am the First,"_ came the voice, slow and steady but weighted with ancient power. _"You may know me by another name, though, Dark Song, one that they called me in the Elder Days, my Valar and the offspring of the songs of the great Musics. I am_ _Eru Ilúvatar_ _, Creator of the Stars and those that worship the Stars, and the world that they live within. I am the Highest Valar, King of the Ancient Magic and forger of its rules. And giver of life to you, Dark Song, Firwyn, formerly known as the Witch King of Angmar. You will come to realize that as such old beings as ourselves, we take on many names in our prolonged and eternal lifespans. Your darker days have come to pass. Now begins your journey of light, although it shall not be an easy one. There is much mystery in you, Firwyn, Dark Song, and Right Hand of Sauron of the Ainur, formerly a blacksmith of unmet talent and skill. You though, unlike your old master, have been given the choice of redemption. Sauron cannot be redeemed. Mairon has faded into the void, even beyond my reach of power."_ The voice of Eru Ilúvatar was golden and like the sun and silver and flowing as the beams of the moon. _"But you are of a different story, my young Prince of the Void. Your path flows differently, although you and Sauron were two passing ships on storming seas, you were destined to pass. Now your destiny is in your own hands, and you must take your own path."_

"Where…where am I to go then?" questioned the newborn ancient being. Eru Ilúvatar's infinitely glorious voice rang like bells in a great cavern through Firwyn's mind. "I am outcast, O Mighty One. None shall accept me."

 _"_ _None know of your return other than these people here in this humble home, Mirilana, Harrion, and the young boy Feldspar who will become your companion very soon when you set out on your own quest."_

The stream churned around Firwyn's waist, and the wind tore through his hair. "Is there some advice that you can give me?"

 _"_ _All that I can tell you is this, Dark Song: Go to the sea. There is one there that has some of the answers that you seek as well as a mode of transportation. He will not know you when he sees you, but you two are sailing ships that will come to shore. You have…intertwined destinies."_

"Who is it? How will I know that it is he that I am looking for?"

 _"_ _You will feel it, my Dark Prince. He is…different from the other ones of his kind. One of the few that chose to stay behind. You will know. I trust that you will."_

"When do I leave?"

 _"_ _Immediately, Firwyn. As soon as provisions can be packed and Feldspar is allowed to travel off with you. Remember, go to the sea. If you want answers, they will be there. Now go! I cannot linger in this world much longer. My essence is being called elsewhere."_

"I…I shall do as you request," Firwyn said humbly, bowing his head before the almighty Lord.

 _"_ _It is not my will to do this, but yours. Your quest. I am merely the shepherd guiding his flocks, Firwyn. Destiny is a tricky thing, but I have a feeling that you will find your path soon enough. Bring Feldspar. He is essential to your success. And find the Special One when you reach the sea. Only then will your quest truly begin."_

Firwyn closed his eyes against the wind that was now assaulting his skin, blistering away at the pale and fair freckled flesh. He had directions and a calling for redemption. That was his soul purpose now in this new life. His existence was currently as important as that of the common peasant or the insects that crawled in the manure of animals on the grazing lands. He was meager, weak, and nearly alone, and that made him, for the first time in his life, feel a grazing blow of humility.

It was with a thunderous chorus that the essence of Eru Ilúvatar left Firwyn, now appearing a sopping wet elf stranded in the middle of a woodland stream. Wading back to shore, he grabbed onto the large covering rag that Feldspar had given him and swung it around his torso, holding the hem carefully out of the icy waters, so that when he clambered back onto the bank of the stream, he could let the end fall halfway down his thighs. His wet hair dried quickly in the morning breeze as he walked by, the clouds already noticeably darker. If he was to leave, he would have to set out from this place soon or risk being stalled by snow in an onslaught of a cumbersome storm. And if he had to take the boy Feldspar with him, then he would have to be even more careful in his travel methods. He would not risk the young child's safety for his own redemption.

The ends of his fiery hair had frozen a bit, melting in cold rivets down his muscular back as he walked back to Harrion and Mirilana's place for the afternoon meal, looking forward to the family's cooking. As a spirit of darkness, food had never been required. He supposed that this was one of the benefits of having a form of flesh and blood. You were able to enjoy meals and talk with the people around you.

When he got back to the house, he slipped quietly inside, hearing the chopping of kitchen knives and smelling the savory scents of roasting meat over a fire. He entered the main living quarters through the bathing area as if he had never been gone, looking around for the rags that Feldspar had left behind, but found none.

Quietly he crept into the kitchen area where Mirilana was cutting fine looking roots to eat with what smelled suspiciously like beef—what he would give for beef—and gently cleared his throat. Mirilana jumped slightly and spun around, apron swirling around her legs. She stared at him wide eyed for a second and then flushed softly, turning a shade of pink that made the rose look pale.

"Well," she said breathily, "you clean up nicely. Is there…anything that I can get for you?"

"Oh, yes—do you happen to know Feldspar's whereabouts? He has some clothes that may fit me. At least they will be better than this sheet." He gestured to the rag that he had wrapped like a sleeveless robe around his torso. Mirilana blushed again, for which reasons Firwyn did not understand. Why did women blush so? Was it some sort of condition?

"He went to his room to go get something," she said, still a bit flustered. Thank goodness she had laid down her knife, or she may have continued to accidently cut through her fingers. "It is the second door down on the hall to your left."

Firwyn nodded his thanks giving her a small smile, and then set about following her directions. When he was out of her sight, he shook his head. She certainly was a strange kind of woman. Or maybe all women were strange.

He knocked on the closed door of Feldspar's room, and hearing the boy's "come in" opened the door and walked in.

"You need pants," the boy said. He was sitting on his bed, legs dangling over the side as he flipped through an old and thick book.

"Aye that I do. And a certain little boy stole them from me."

"I'm sure that you gave Mother and awful fright."

Firwyn chuckled. "If ever a woman was startled, she resembled a deer that saw the arrow in the hunter's bow. What are you reading?"

"Nothing much. It is a book on all of the years of the Elder Days in the past, before most of the Elves sailed off on their white ships to the Undying Lands." He continued reading. Firwyn smiled, and pushed the top of the book down so that the heavy tome came to rest on Feldspar's lap. The child looked up at him startled.

"What if," Firwyn said looking him in the eyes, "I were to tell you that I want you to come on an adventure with me?"


	5. Chapter Four: The Ages Passed

Feldspar's bright green eyes widened.

"What do you mean? Do you mean, leave here and go off with you to who knows where?"

Firwyn sighed. "I admit, it was a rather foolish notion on my part, Feldspar. If you do not feel like coming with me, I take no blame for your decision—"

"No, no Firwyn, I very much want to come with you! When do we leave?" Feldspar's elbows dug into the leather cover of his book on his lap in his excitement. Firwyn smiled crookedly.

"As soon as we can pack provisions, we will make our way out to the nearest sea port, if you know where that would be?"

Feldspar pushed the book off of his lap and onto the bed mattress and sat up a bit straighter. "It's just beyond Bree to the west a couple of miles. At least that's what Father has told me. He doesn't work that much with maps or geography, but I think that he is right about this."

Firwyn nodded along. "Yes, and it is how far to Bree?"

"About sixty miles, as the crow flies," came a new voice. Harrion stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He had a smudge of flour across one cheek, probably from his wife making bread. "You honestly think that I will let you venture out there into the unknown—with my only son, stranger? Then you must be mistaken. He is not yours to command. Now I suggest that you eat the meal that my wife and I have prepared, and then you leave. You have no authority here. Who do you think you are?"

Feldspar shrank down into his mattress, but Firwyn stood up taller.

"It is not I that commands your son to come," he said, "but a greater power than I shall ever be. Than any of us can even hope or imagine to be. Eru Ilúvatar has spoken his will unto me, and in everyone's best interest, I wish to fulfill the great Lord's destiny plans."

Harrion took a step closer to Firwyn and stared him hard in the eye, having to look up a few inches to accommodate for the taller fellow's height.

"And you can prove that this…this 'Eru Ilúvatar' has sent you directions straight from his Eternal Realm. Can you not? You have no directions, no signs to me that you are worth this risk? He is my son!" Harrion breathed heavily through flaring nostrils. His short grey-streaked beard bristled around the chin and whiskers.

Firwyn thought about that for a moment. He shook his head slowly, coming up with nothing, but then stopped. Slowly, he shrugged the edge of the rag from his left shoulder, the side on which the Evenstar marking on his skin surrounded by the galaxy's map in freckles rested over his steadily beating heart. Harrion's eyes narrowed again, further shut this time, not in anger but in puzzlement and concentration.

"What in the name of the westerly winds is that?" he whispered as he surveyed the speckled skin.

"Markings of the stars, Harrion. Observe for yourself. See that they are genuine."

"Are they just on your arm, or—"

"My whole body."

Harrion nodded, mystified.

"Very well," he finally consented. "But on two conditions."

"Name your terms."

Harrion counted off on his fingers. "One: you protect my son at all times and at any cost, and two: you go put on some pants."

*(0)*

The meal was quite to Firwyn's satisfaction, as was it to Feldspar, who devoured the food within the time period of but a few minutes. There were boiled root vegetables and some unknown meat, most likely venison, all chopped up and thrown into a big pot with a handful of fresh herbs to make a savory stew. The boy was going back for seconds before anyone had even half-finished their firsts.

"Mercy of the stars, he has an appetite!" Mirilana exclaimed beneath her breath.

"He has the appetite of any healthy growing boy of his age, my dear," Harrion chuckled. "Although," he added with a frown and gesturing to his guest, "if he doesn't ease up soon, he will be sick to his stomach the first day or so that you two are on the road."

"I won', Fa-her," Feldspar promised, shoveling another massive spoonful of stew into his mouth. His cheeks were inflated like those of a chipmunk.

"And where exactly will you two be headed this very afternoon?" questioned Mirilana, as any concerned mother would.

"We will be making our way to Bree, where we will stop for the night, and then on to the sea ports the following morn."

"And do you know who you are looking for when you arrive, Firwyn? You mentioned that there was someone that you had to find when you got into town."

Firwyn grinned sheepishly, a lock of fiery hair falling across his face. He brushed it aside. "Well, not exactly. I was only told that I would know him when I saw him. But the Highest One does not lie. I will know him on sight."

"Are you even fit to travel?" Mirilana looked up from her stew with wide eyes. "You awoke from unconsciousness only a few hours ago. Will you be fine? I mean, you certainly look like a strong and capable young man, and I'm sure that you will have a good time and have smooth travels, but—oh listen to me, I'm gabbling on like some old hag! I just wish you two luck on your journey. It is a journey, right, and not a quest? Because quests can be nasty business, I tell you, downright nasty. A century and a half ago there was the largest quest of our day that took place. The questers called themselves The Fellowship of the Ring. And a while before that, we had The Company of Thorin Oakenshield. A whole entire parade of thirteen Dwarves, a Hobbit, and a Wizard. You don't see the likes of that too often, if you get my meaning."

Firwyn frowned. "Have you ever seen a Dwarf, an Elf, a Hobbit, or a Wizard before?"

"No, I cannot say that I have. Perhaps once I thought that I had met a dwarf, but it was just a very short and disagreeable man. Odd fellow he was. Made pottery in an old ramshackle shop over in Bree. More stew?"

Firwyn blinked. "Oh, ah, no thank you. It was quite good, though. Best meal that I've had in a very long time." _If I give or take a century and a half,_ he thought bitterly to himself, despite the fact that he smiled.

"Ah, wonderful then! I am glad you liked it. Something to come back to then, after your little excursion?"

"A warm house is all that I need, and I thank you all for everything that you have given me," Firwyn replied with a short bow of his head. "Including the trousers; I thank you for those very much."

Feldspar smirked at him across the table over a full spoon of stew. Firwyn narrowed his brilliant eyes. The child was only being a bit of a prick, but he dreaded the journey if the boy was going to constantly steal his pants when they needed to be removed for washing. He would have to watch out. Feldspar could prove to be a little mischief maker.

"Firwyn?" the boy piped up. "Have _you_ ever seen any of those things? Dwarves and Elves and the like?"

Firwyn grinned. "That I have, young master. Many, back when I was a bit younger."

"How old are you?"

"Feldspar!" his mother chided him. "Be polite!"

"No, no, it is quite all right. I am quite a bit older than I think I look."

"How old?" It was Feldspar speaking up this time.

"Old enough to have seen the Wandering Wizard with my own two eyes more than once."

There was a brief collective silence. "What did he look like?" asked Feldspar, not one to dwell on petty things like age.

"You are over a century and a half old," muttered Mirilana, almost sounding ashamed, as if she were blaming herself for not having seen it before.

"Oh, well to be truthful, I'm quite a bit older than that. These are just my…recent years, to put it mildly. I am older than any living being here in this world. They still call it Middle Earth, I hope. Perhaps one thing shall remain unchanged."

"We found you laying in a field, covered with filth from the elements. How long were there?" Harrion leaned forwards on the table, the gesture similar to Feldspar when he had propped his elbows up on his book. Firwyn squeezed his eyelids shut and let out a breath as he opened them again.

"I truly have no idea. It could have been a minute, an hour, a day, a year. A cursed century could have passed with me laying in the field. I had no idea that the field is where you found me. How did you carry me back?"

"On Brazen, our tempered colt."

Firwyn nodded and hummed lowly. "I seem to be recovering quite rapidly for an unconscious man that you found abandoned in a muddy field if I do say so myself."

Mirilana peered up at him, taking in his features with one raking of her gaze. "I do not think you to be a normal man, Firwyn. Everything from your name and your voice to the way that you walk is different from anything that I have seen."

"The way that I walk." It wasn't a question.

"Graceful. Too graceful. Too light of foot for so tall a man."

"You've been observing me."

Mirilana flushed like a tomato in her embarrassment. "I admit it, yes. You are a stranger, and a rather interesting character, Firwyn."

"My voice? You seemed to notice things. Explain."

"You have a more fluid speech than many men around this area, not in vocabulary or things of that nature, but of the tone that your words carry. It is heavier, yet it moves. Like spells in the Olden Days. Your name? It is Elvish. No one in over twenty years that I have met has an Elven name. Nearly all of the Elves have departed to the Undying Lands. Those that remain keep to themselves, you must understand. They were driven from here by the evil that had been forged at first, but then left for a different purpose. Man's reign of Middle Earth was beginning, and they had no part in such endeavors. It was best that they were separated from those that they did not wish to impact. Elves have a way of doing that, Firwyn. Of impacting. Changing things, and it is often for the better. Myself, I cannot fathom why they wanted to miss the Golden Age of men. It seems like utter folly."

Firwyn bit in his bottom lip. "I missed all of this time with my conscious in another world, so I would have no idea about this Golden Age. I gather then that King Aragorn, son of Arathorn won the War of the Ring against the armies of Mordor of the Black Lands."

"Indeed he did. The finest king perhaps that mankind has ever seen. His grandson sits on the throne of Gondor now, and bears a striking likeness to his grandfather before him."

"What of the rest of the Fellowship of the Ring?"

"Little is told of them. They faded out, spending great strength in avoidance of the public eye. The Elf and the Dwarf were not seen after they set sail all those years ago. The Hobbits are either passed or extremely aged. You have missed much in your absence, Firwyn."

Firwyn looked down at his empty bowl of stew.

"Yes," he said dejectedly. "Yes, I suppose I have."

"Well," Mirilana said, "I shall set about to preparing some traveling provisions for the two of you. Now set off to packing. The road is seldom an easy one, so you must leave before the snow begins to fall. Follow the main road the whole way. Bree is hard to miss."

Firwyn nodded. _Tell me that again after I get us lost._ "I will take the directions to heart," he said aloud. "Come on, Feldspar. If there is one thing that someone should not be late for, it is a quest."

A/N: Please feel free to review! Any feedback is good, the 'you done good' to the 'maybe you could try this to make it better', but please, no hateful comments, towards the story, or anything personal with either me or other readers. Hannon le.


	6. Chapter Five: When One Belongs

Firwyn and Feldspar decided to take Brazen. The fiery colt had looked at the tall being and the child before him with something resembling disdain, and agreed unwillingly to be saddled and mounted. Feldspar sat just in front of Firwyn so that there was no way for him to fall off the horse without being thrown straight up into the air, a feat impressive for even the audacious Brazen. Firwyn, much to Mirilana's delight, had managed to find himself an adequate set of trousers, a bit short on the legs, so the ends were tucked into a pair of borrowed soft leather boots. An extra unused cloak had been thrown around his shoulders, a solid dark grey piece of material that was worn and blemished at the bottom hem and comfortably weighted around his shoulders.

Harrion wished them both Godspeed, giving a side-cast look at his son's new guardian, entrusting the young life in the hands of someone who was almost a complete stranger. Firwyn nodded indiscreetly back at the older man as he gathered the reins in his hands.

Mirilana had packed an entire week's worth of flat bread, dried meats, and nuts for meals and a blanket roll for cold nights, as well as a set of gloves when Firwyn's hands got cold and unfeeling from handling the reins for too long. Feldspar was wrapped in a shin-length cloak of brown woven wool to keep warm. Bitter winds already stung their cheeks, reddening the skin and chaffing at the delicate flesh. Still Firwyn could not feel the effects of the cold, although the repercussions of wind burn were evident. He may have been protected, but he was not immune.

Jagged and tuneless music was played as if by an ethereal orchestra as the brittle spindle thin and sharp leafless branches rubbed against one another, the sound that they created grating but strangely soothing at the same time. Simple natural notes, crude and imperfect making them all the more unflawed to the ears of Firwyn. He was no Man, no Dwarf, and no Elf. Certainly not a Hobbit, he thought with amusement as he recalled the short and stout creatures, big-footed and dressed in bright springtime fashion, buttons always a bit stressed around the midriff, jolly grins on their round apple cheeks and a twinkle in their bright eyes.

They were such a queer folk, albeit the most enjoyable to think of. They were not beings of unworldly grace and beauty as the Elves had been, nor unyielding and as iron-willed as the Dwarves in their lantern lit mines, gems all aglow, nor like Man of valor and honor deep living within carven walls and fighting with the steel of their armories. It was their will for harmony and peace, found within each other and family and friends that united them, bonded them. It was in that moment that Firwyn wished that he had a people to belong to. It was almost better in his opinion to have one person in the world that identified with him than to be alone. Loneliness was nagging, and it was a blessing from Eru Ilúvatar that he had come across Feldspar.

The pair rode until Feldspar's home was out of sight and the hazy horizon was all that was visible between the breaks of cold and fragmented light filtering through the thick trees that watched the travelers as they passed, their speech carried from the far off woodlands to the great waters where mist gathered and snow began to fall lightly from the heavenlies.


	7. Chapter Six: The Bay of Lune

The great Elven Lord was bored out of his mind. All around him was an expanse of water that rippled and shone in the fading light of day like hammered silver. The Bay of Lune was calm, gentle waves blending in with the darkening horizon. And it was so quiet. So quiet, that the Elven Lord was able to hear his heart beating and the blood rushing through his body. Everything was so monotone that it made him want to scream.

 _"Rhaich!"_ he spat, relieved in his own voice. When his words faded out over the water, he groaned softly. Oh, how he hated this silence. _"Gya she le!"_ the Elven Lord muttered hatefully. At the moment, he was not all that certain who he cursed and damned, but it felt good. He was surrounded by water on a boat—it did not deserve to be called a ship—along with a small crew of his kin having come from the northern shores of Forlindon. They had been sent to observe the old Elf-haven and its trade conditions as it was the most western tip of Middle Earth itself by their own consent. Very few Elves remained in Middle Earth, as most had set sail to Valinor. But not the last Lord of Imladris, which is known in common Westron as Rivendell.

"My Lord?" inquired a voice coming from the Elven Lord's left. The approaching Elf, Alandon, was a dear friend. Perhaps that would be the reason why his words were tinged with teasing mirth. "You seem troubled."

Groaning softly, the Elven Lord spun around to face him. The long, dark cloak he wore was clasped firmly at the throat, and the hood was drawn up to cover his hair and shield his back from the wind. Oncoming winter had set a frigid mist atop the surface of the water that settled when the sun went down and soaked the boat deck and the sails at night. A raw salted wind had come over the Bay of Lune that tangled clothes, tackle rope, lines, and hair. Everything in its path was crusted in a fine sheen of the salt.

Alandon's hair was short for an Elf, the burnt umber tangled locks coming just to his shoulders, although his Lord's was even shorter, though the Elven Lord kept it that way more in a gesture of defiance of the past than anything else. To sever old fears from his reborn mind. He was currently fighting a losing battle in a fruitless attempt to keep it out of his eyes.

"The same seems to be going for you, my friend," the Elven Lord retorted, dipping his head in greeting.

"It is not wise for My Lord to snap so," Alandon replied in kind. "And if anyone's hair has given them trouble, they are pale in comparison to you."

"There lies the reasoning in why I have cut it; it draws very little attention now and allows me to move easily across the land between villages inconspicuously. I may pass for a tall Man if I so desire without catching unwanted eyes. My kin saw it as a blessing when I was born. I see it as a curse." His voice grew bitterer in his last statement than he had anticipated.

"Are you all right?" Alandon asked, not unkindly. He did not fully understand his friend any longer, not after he Fell and passed into the darkness. The mannerisms of the once open and joyful _ellon_ [Elf, m.] had shifted, and he had become bipolar in nature.

The Elven Lord sighed quietly. "Yes." He paused before speaking again. "You need not worry for me so, Alandon. I think that the one thing that truly haunts me about this world I have returned to is that there remains no more darkness to be fought."

"There is nothing wrong in longing for the elder days of glory and battle, my friend. You always did have a keen thirst for adventure. But the days of war are in the past. You might look forward to a life of peace and plenty now." Alandon rested his hand on his tall friend's shoulder. The Elven Lord sighed again.

"That remains the problem," he whispered. "The great Wars of the past...they have not allowed me peace. I cannot rid myself of the visions of battles. It is almost as though something deep in my soul yearns for blood to run once more. And it terrifies me."

"Continue," Alandon pleaded. He had not had his friend be open in this way for quite a while.

"After...after returning from the Halls of Mandos after I fell, I entered a world that was not my own. The only reprieve from knowing that the time of my people was coming to an end and that nearly all would set sail for the Undying Lands was the brief War of the Ring. Although there was much danger and death all around and evil swept through the lands, it felt good to be of some use again. I bore the Ringbearer to Imladris and watched from those white stone walls the sun, rising as though bathed in fire and blood. There was always an urgency to strap on my armour again and take up my sword."

"The feelings will come to pass, my friend," Alandon promised soothingly.

"No, no they will not."

"Please, My Lord, those days are behind us. The world is for Men now, not for the likes of Elves such that we are."

"I returned a soldier ready to fight in a world that was ready for peace. I admit that I have long felt rather displaced. Even among my kin."

"My Lord, you must not despair." Alandon's face looked desperate enough that his wide eyes and expression bordered on comical, had not the topic that he spoke of been so heavily weighted. "You cannot Fade! You mustn't lose hope."

At this, the Elven Lord laughed. He actually laughed, and Alandon looked on confusedly. Still chuckling softly, the Elven Lord said,

"Fade? After all that I want in this entire world is to truly _live_ once more? My dear Alandon, you have me rightfully mistaken indeed."

"You...you do not wish to depart from Middle Earth?" Alandon breathed in relief. The Elven Lord gave another low laugh.

"Alandon, I have managed to survive a few centuries around you. If anything has proved my endurance, that feat alone more than proves it." A gust of wind tore again at his cloak, and he clutched it tightly at the base of the cowl. "And this accursed wind. But no, I've already died once. No need to go about it again, if you ask me."

"Come now, your grave was a pleasant enough place. The gardeners kept it nice, and there were flowers and everything. You did them a disservice by coming back."

"Aye, and the poor maggots that no longer have the honor of eating away my magnificent flesh." He let out a stream of curses under his breath.

Alandon looked shocked. "My Lord!" The gasp came close in pitch to that of a young girl.

The Elven Lord raised an eyebrow. "Yes, my trusty second-in-command?"

The ridges of Alandon's cheekbones flushed. "I believe that My Lord forgets himself and has the capacity to make oaths that either equal Dwarves or sailors. But, despite that, it is simply nice to know that My Lord's dry humor has not waned in the slightest."

"You're turning red, Alandon."

"Apologies."

Silence came over the two Elves, and in their silence, they listened to the waves slowly lapping against the side of the boat. The remaining crew had shut themselves in belowdecks where their numbers would supply sufficient heat out of the arms of the elements outside.

Darkness pooled into the clouds, a warning of snow. It was easy enough to make way for the shore if needed, as it was perhaps a little over four leagues to solid ground. The rocks should have been visible at such a distance, but the low-rolling mists prevented even Elven eyes from penetrating the shifting grey.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a lone snowflake drifted down and alighted on the boat's rail. It would appear that the company of Elves would have to bring the boat to shore, lest they risk overturning the pathetic thing in a violent burst of frigid air or causing the sails and lines, minimal as they were, to become fragile from growing ice.

"Call the rest up here," the Elven Lord commanded Alandon. "We spend the night here."

With a nod, Alandon clasped his Lord's shoulder and went to fulfil his duties.

The smooth shores gladly welcomed the vessel and its weary passengers, all of whom had donned thick woolen cloaks. The boat made it about fifteen yards to where the large slickened rocks met gravel. Within a short half hour, the Elves had tied the boat down and prepared themselves for the oncoming snow. Their speech was a mingling assortment of flowing Sindarin and Westron, both of which were spoken tiredly, as though tongues were as weary as limbs. Long days spent on smooth seas in an amateurishly crafted boat was enough to tire even the most steadfast of Middle Earth's Elves.

Thickly clustered pines skirted the rocky rim of the bowl the waves had carved away at limestone boulders over the years. The stones were worn smooth with erosion, almost like naturally polished gems, although the dull earthen tones did not glitter like diamonds did. The forestry would be dense enough to block out much of the snow and wind, and salted waters would not freeze over. _For once,_ the Elven Lord supposed, _This accursed Bay of Lune has brought us some good in the end._

Leading his people up the steep slope, the Elven Lord felt something inside of him that he had not felt in a long time. It was as though his inner _fëa_ [Spirit, Q.] could sense a return of darkness in the land. A light returned inside, as though he had rejuvenated purpose. The foreign feeling caught him off guard, and he missed his footing on the next step. One of the Elves trekking the closest in his wake, Verdular, caught his arm and helped to steady himself before he fell backwards down the way he came.

"Thank you," he muttered, brushing off Verdular's sideways glance of concern.

"My Lord, are you quite sure—?"

"I am perfectly fine," the Elven Lord snapped. Then in a mischievous tone he added, "I'm not old enough yet that I've developed a bad hip, Verdular, if that's what you are wondering." Verdular was a younger Elf with a large heart, and a kind bantering wit that he often exercised around his superior, although this greatly pleased the Elven Lord and made him feel more a part of the world he lived in once more.

"Nay, My Lord," the younger Elf laughed lightly, "But after that mighty fall you took a while ago, I would not be overly shocked if you'd developed a bad back. Hobbling around like an old mortal grandmother you are at times. Face it, My Lord, you've gotten old."

"I am not _old,_ " the Elven Lord grumbled disdainfully.

"Aye, you're right." Verdular nodded with mock seriousness. "Certainly not old. You're _ancient._ Positively a relic." He smiled brightly, laughter in his dark green eyes.

Rolling his eyes, the Elven Lord once again took the lead of the company, careful not to slip up his footing again. It sounded cowardly to him, but following his Fall, the Elven Lord had become much more wary of heights.

 _What a familiar sensation, falling,_ the Elven Lord mused. _That split second before you are sent into free-fall, that odd place where your stomach nearly comes up and out your throat, and there is that brief flash of fear._

Of course, the Elven Lord would know all about falling. Oh yes indeed, the Lord Glorfindel of Imladris knew an awful lot about the descent.

 **A quick thank-you to anyone who has read or reviewed this! Mwah, big kisses for the lot of you!**

 **-F.E.**

 **P.S. I apologize for slow updating. I am currently waging war against the greatest opponent any man has ever come across before. They cal him...LIFE. (Ehehee, nah, that's finals, which are next week. Oh joy. Whee!)**


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